


When All That’s Left Is A Pool of Tears

by torakowalski



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agents of SHIELD spoilers, Episode Tag, Gen, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, post episode tag: s01e11 The Magical Place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You know,” Clint says conversationally.  “That was a hell of a way to find out that my SO’s alive.  I mean, an alert goes out for a missing agent, you kind of don’t expect it to be for one who’s already dead.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All That’s Left Is A Pool of Tears

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [When All That’s Left Is A Pool of Tears (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135059) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> For Ralkana who asked for h/c cuddles.
> 
> Episode tag for 1x11 - The Magical Place. I really recommend watching that first; it's one you don't want to be spoiled for.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [chaneen](http://chaneen.livejournal.com) for the beta and the Americanpick. <3

Phil gets out of Dr Streiten’s car and starts walking.

He isn’t heading anywhere in particular, but he also isn’t surprised when he looks up and finds himself leaning against a slightly battered door inside a slightly battered building in Bed-Stuy.

He has a key somewhere. At least, he used to. He doesn’t remember where it is right now.

Either he already knocked, or there’s hidden security on the door, because it swings open almost immediately.

Clint Barton looks back at him, eyebrows raised and arms folded.

“No,” he says flatly, looking Phil up and down. “No way.”

Phil’s mind is blank; he doesn’t feel capable of arguing. “Okay,” he says and nods. He turns away, then realises he doesn’t know where to go next. His feet don’t want to move.

He hears a sigh from behind him, and then a hand lands on his shoulder. He wants to twitch it off, his skin feels as though it’s crawling, but he manages not to.

“What the fuck?” Clint mutters, which Phil doesn’t think is aimed at him. He walks around Phil and peers into his eyes. “Sir. You okay in there? You tracking?”

Phil blinks and tries to say something reassuring. “I’m sorry,” he says, instead. 

Clint’s frown gets deeper. “C’mon,” he says, steering Phil around and toward the apartment door. “C’mon, sir, you look like you need a drink.”

Phil makes sure to take note of every step between the hallway and Clint’s kitchen island, because he’s losing time and that’s terrifying. He props one elbow on the counter and watches Clint fill a glass with water from the faucet. 

“I thought you meant a real drink,” he says. He’s trying; it hurts to try, but he’ll keep doing it.

“Yeah.” Clint puts the glass in front of him and waits until Phil drinks some. “Probably a bad idea. You look like you’re not all there.”

Phil shudders so hard that water sloshes over the sides of the glass and he fumbles it back down onto the table. It lands with a clunk that’s almost a crunch.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, realising too late that he’s going into shock, or coming out of it; that either way, he shouldn’t be doing it here.

“Fuck, are you serious?” Clint demands, pushing Phil back down into his chair before he’s done more than shift his weight onto his feet. “You look like you’re about to keel over, Coulson. You’re not going anywhere.”

Phil lets himself be pushed back down, then lifts a shaking hand and presses it to his eyes. He really shouldn’t have come here.

There’s the unmistakable sound of a chair being dragged across a hardwood floor, and when Clint speaks again, his voice is much closer. “You know,” he says conversationally. “That was a hell of a way to find out that my SO’s alive. I mean, an alert goes out for a missing agent, you kind of don’t expect it to be for one who’s already dead.”

Phil wishes he were dead. No, that’s not true. Phil remembers wishing it, can feel the memory of that desperation licking at the edges of every thought.

He doesn’t wish it now, but he knows that he should, that he would, if Fury had left his mind alone.

Clint’s voice goes soft, conspiratorial. “Don’t get me wrong, sir; I’m seriously glad you are alive.”

“You may be celebrating prematurely,” Phil says, then laughs. It isn’t funny, but he can’t help himself, and then he can’t stop. His chest hurts; he’s dimly aware that he can’t breathe, but he doesn’t stop laughing, weakly, into the palm of his own hand.

“Coulson,” Clint says, “Phil.” Hands land on his knees. “The fuck did they do to you?”

It’s the gruff kindness in Clint’s tone that is Phil’s undoing. He hears his laughter turn into something else, his eyes wet and stinging. 

“Phil,” Clint says again, and then, “I’m gonna do a thing, okay? Don’t freak out on me.”

Strong, solid arms wrap around Phil. The smell of beeswax polish, deodorant, and gun oil is long-forgotten but feels suddenly familiar when it surrounds him. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil says for the third time and rests his forehead on Clint’s shoulder. Clint hugs him hard, palms flat on Phil’s back, pushing him toward Clint’s warmth. 

If Phil starts thinking, he isn’t sure what will happen, so he focuses on breathing, on Clint’s pulse under his ear, on _Clint_ , who’s squeezing Phil like he’s trying to hold him together.

Eventually, Phil shifts, just enough to put his hands on Clint’s sides. He makes two fists in the material of Clint’s t-shirt and tries to breathe, to ground himself in the very real, very solid shape of Clint Barton.

“Kind of pictured myself punching you, next time I saw you,” Clint murmurs in his ear. “Not… this.”

Phil snorts. He should lift his head from Clint’s shoulder, put some space between them, but he’s honestly too tired.

“You’re welcome to,” he says.

“Nah.” Phil’s head rises and falls with Clint’s shrug. “You look pretty beat up, already.”

Reluctantly, Phil makes himself sit back, rubbing his face. “You have no idea.” 

Clint’s arms fall back to his sides. He looks tense and worried, but he puts something like a smile on his face. It’s as if he’s forgotten that Phil can read him like a field manual. “You want to go to bed?” he asks, then flushes. “I mean. Fuck. You know what I mean. You can crash here for a couple of hours.”

Phil shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’ve imposed enough.”

“Yeah, I feel fucking _imposed_ upon.” Clint rolls his eyes. “Dude, sir, sir-dude, I’m not letting you leave when you’re all… fucked up like that, anyway.”

“Call me Phil,” he says. He doesn’t know where that comes from. It feels easier to focus on the little things. “I liked that.”

Clint smiles, tiny and surprised-looking, but clearly pleased. “Sure,” he says. He pats Phil on the thigh and stands up, holding his hand out, palm up. “Bed. _Phil_.”

Phil puts his hand in Clint’s and lets himself be pulled to his feet. “I need to let my team know where I am,” he says. He’d meant to visit Streiten then go back to the Bus. He doesn’t know how long he’s been gone.

“Yeah, later.” The stairs creak under their feet, which at least helps to keep Phil focused on every step. 

Clint’s bed is a mound of blankets and there’s a tower of discarded pizza boxes all pressed into one corner of the loft space. He makes a tiny tsking noise, presumably at himself, and flaps around tidying while Phil kicks off his shoes and slowly, painfully, takes off his jacket. He trusts Clint implicitly, but he still doesn’t feel up to stripping down any further.

Phil climbs into bed as soon as Clint steps back. He doesn’t expect to be able to sleep, but Clint’s right, he should try. It was hard enough to keep a blank face in front of his team earlier; it’ll get harder the more exhausted he is.

“Anything you need?” Clint asks. “Phil?”

Phil’s head starts to ache as soon as he lays it on the pillow. “No,” he says, closing his eyes. He thinks about the dark and being alone and snaps them open again. “Will you stay?”

“Sure, yes, totally,” Clint says quickly. The bed dips when he sits down near Phil’s hip, and then stays very still as though Clint’s holding his breath.

It manages to make Phil smile. “Barton,” he says, “this isn’t a mission.”

“Right, no.” Clint shifts around, then his knuckles brush Phil’s temple and he strokes his fingers through Phil's hair. 

Phil doesn’t say anything and he does it again, fingertips on Phil's scalp. It feels nice for a moment and Phil finds himself drifting. Then he remembers needles in his brain, sharp jabs of blinding pain.

He sits up in a rush, hands going to his head. 

Clint rocks back, looking spooked. "Shit, Phil, what did I do?"

Phil shakes his head, fingers restlessly exploring his hairline. They scalped him. There should be a scar. He's sure there's no scar.

“Okay, you gotta tell me,” Clint says, and then, when Phil doesn’t answer, leans in and cups the back of his neck, trying to tip Phil’s head up towards him.

All Phil can think about is _don’t stop_ , is _Don’t. Stop._

"Stop," he says, "please don't touch me there."

Clint snatches his hand back, standing up from the bed and backing away.

"I'm sorry, " he says, hands out. “I wasn't trying to be, you know, inappropriate. Or, like, no more inappropriate than I ever was and you never seemed to mind. Before. I’m sorry. Fuck."

Phil closes his eyes. He hadn't minded. 

He sighs. He rests his forehead on his knees and breathes. "They changed me," he says. “I don’t know how much.”

“The Centipede people?” Clint asks. He doesn’t touch, but Phil can sense that he’s close by.

“Fury,” Phil says. “Hill. Streiten. I don’t know who exactly. SHIELD.”

Clint hesitates. “Do you still want me to stay?”

Phil looks up, watching as Clint fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt and bounces a little in place. “Very much.” 

Clint nods quickly and drops back onto the bed, settling into the unoccupied half and very carefully not touching Phil.

“It was nothing you did,” Phil tells him, even though that’s not exactly true. The principle is true though; Phil can’t stand having his head touched because of Fury, not because of Clint.

“‘kay.” Clint raises his eyebrows. “You gonna lie down again?”

Phil doesn’t want to. He isn’t sure he’s ever going to be able to sleep again. He lies down, anyway. He would naturally turn his back on Clint - it’s the way they’ve shared a bed countless times before on missions - but he theorises that he’ll feel much better if he can see someone familiar.

Clint looks surprised when Phil settles onto his side, facing him, but the left corner of his mouth turns up and he mirrors Phil’s position, with a foot of space between them.

“Comfy?” he asks.

Phil nods and closes his eyes. They fly open again when fingertips touch his wrist.

“Sorry,” Clint says, looking sheepish. “Just can’t really believe you’re here.”

“What if I’m not all here?” Phil asks. “What if I’m not real?”

Clint’s fingers sweep over his palm. “You feel real.”

Phil’s hand twitches, and he reaches out without meaning to, catching Clint’s hand between both of his. Clint’s hand is warm and solid, and it wraps around Phil’s as though he would willingly never let go. It helps more than it should.

“What are we going to do?” Clint asks, like there’s no question that he’ll help. Phil knows that his new team would react in the same way - at least, he hopes they would. Fitz might be disgusted; Simmons might want to dissect him - but he still appreciates it very much.

“I don’t know yet,” Phil admits. He always has a plan, but he can’t think of one for this.

“We can work it out.” Clint’s thumb strokes Phil’s. “I mean, at some point you’re going to have to give me details, but whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

In any other circumstances, Phil would share Clint’s confidence. Phil isn’t in the habit of being thwarted by anything. But fixing this might mean destroying everything else.

“I’d like that,” he says, which is the truest answer he can manage.

Clint ducks his head and presses a dry kiss to the backs of Phil’s knuckles. He looks up at Phil through his eyelashes. “Not hitting on you,” he says. “Just, you know.”

“I know,” Phil says. “To warn you, I’m probably going to have nightmares.”

Clint’s hands clench around his. “I’ll be here,” he says. “Long as you need.”

Phil lets his eyes fall shut. There isn’t anyone he could have turned to who would have made everything fine, but he’s glad he’s here. At least, Clint makes it bearable. 

/End


End file.
